of butterflies and broken bones
by all the lost souls
Summary: au. accidents happen. sunsets end. things change. it's life. and just for the record, it's beautiful. but maybe she can't—won't—see that; and suddenly all she wants to do is run away, leaving the person she once thought she was in her tear-stained tracks.
1. how we got into this mad situation

for hannah. also for dez, lisa, leesh, ericka, darling, dani (come back, please?), and everyone else on ff i'm too lazy to list.

this is the brainchild spawn derived from my hatred of pointe shoes and current obsession with phobias. brainchild, say hello to reader. reader, wave back.

now that introductions are out of the way, (or you could've just skimmed over this whole an, because let's face it, it's pretty much all crap anyways, right?) we can get on with the story.

[disclaimed.]

of **_butterflies _**and **b r o k e n **bones

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,

The start of every story is triggered by something. All the fairytales start at some point or another, either by some twist of fate or some stupid wish or whispered secret some passing mortal-immortal just so happens to overhear.

Cinderella's started when she met her fairy godmother and rode to a ball in a pumpkin.

Ariel's started the day she decided she didn't want to be a mermaid anymore.

Hercules's started when his parents had sex.

("Don't have sex, because you will get pregnant and die!" Someone should notify Coach Carr that he is wrong on that point. Zeus and Hera are very much alive, thanks.)

Hers started the day she broke her leg.

* * *

_Chorophobia- the fear of dancing._

* * *

"Skyler! Fix your posture and _pour le Dieu_, get that turnout right!"

You'd think that after having me as a student for the past seven years, the old hag would've warmed up to me.

Obviously not.

Madame Mimi throws her skinny dancer arms up in the air in exasperation, a steely glint entering her eyes. At the other end of the room, Nina Callas snickers.

I narrow my eyes at her, and tell myself that there's enough hate in the world without me adding to it. But with her tapered almond eyes, her pointed ears, and her impish grin, the _chica_ looks more like a dark angel than a ballerina.

Mimi claps her hands together, her always-reproving expression a few degrees lighter as she appraises us. "Take a break, everyone."

I lean against the bar, taking a sip from my water bottle, letting the cold liquid cool down my throat. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My electric blue eyes are wild, a couple of strands of blonde hair that had escaped from my bun plastered to my forehead with sweat.

Nina's high-pitched laugh rings out into the silence, followed by a few titters. I turn around and six pairs of curious eyes met mine. They all glanced away furtively, like they'd just been caught stealing from the cookie jar, but Nina holds my gaze, a cat-like smirk curling her lips.

Layne walks past, and Nina turns her attention from me to hiss "_freak" _while sticking out a perfectly toned leg to block her path, earning another set of giggles from her posse.

"Okay, that's enough." Mimi says, walking back through the glass-paned French doors. "Repeat the routine, and Skyler, do try to put some passion into it this time, please?"

I roll my eyes as everyone else makes their way to the centre of the circular room, stashing my bottle back into my bag and pulling off my navy knitted crochet.

"She does like you, you know."

I glance around, surprised, and find myself staring into Layne Abeley's scornful face. My surprise doubles, and then some.

The thing about Layne, though, was she was sort of, well, a—

The word freak is at the tip of my tongue, but I dispel the thought, disgusted at how close I was to sounding like Nina and her cronies. Sure, she had a red streak in her hair and liked to paint her nails vivid colours, played the drums and listened to heavy metal bands no one else had ever heard of, but that didn't make her a bad person. It just meant that she was her own person, and didn't want to blend in, be identical to everyone else, like a flock of sheep incapable of thinking for themselves.

And I couldn't really blame her for that.

"She just thinks you need the motivation. If she treated you like a princess," Her lips curl in disgust at the word, "Then you'd become as spoilt as the rest of them." She shrugs. "You've got spunk. She likes that."

I bite my lip. "How do you know that?"

Some emotion flashes in her eyes, but it passes too quickly for me to distinguish it. "My mom treats me the same way, and she says it's 'cause her mom brought them up that way. And I guess she thought it worked." She shrugs, her nose wrinkling slightly, like she thought it was stupid. "Character building and all that shit."

The realisation hits me like a bulldozer. _Her mom brought them up that way._

"She's your—" I frown. "Mimi's your _aunt_?"

Layne purses her lips. I take that as a confirmation.

"But she acts like she—"

"Hates me?" She interrupts. "I know. She's not supposed to show nepotism or favouritism or whatever. It was the only condition I could join the class." Her shoulders curve a little as she shrugs again. "She's actually pretty cool when she's away from all this," she says, gesturing around the studio.

"Oh." I'm still struggling to take it all in. "But then why dance here, if—"

Mimi's condescending voice breaks off my sentence.

"Skyler! Layne! As you must be well aware of by now, we do not have all day to wait around while you gossip!"

I slip into my space quickly as the first notes of music sound, catching onto the rhythm, transitioning smoothly into the different spins and twirls as she counts the beats, chanting them like a mantra, raising her voice over the low buzz of the piano music.

"Ah five, six, seven, eight! Arrière, développé, fouetté jeté, pas de chat, plié!"

And again.

One. Two. Three. Four. Piqué. Five. Six. Seven. Elevé. Croisé. Eight.

"_Jump_!" Madame Mimi shouts, her voice bouncing off the walls, her face morphing into an expression better fitting in a cheesy Disney comedy than a classy old-school New York ballet studio.

And so I do.

"Higher!"

Two heartbeats later, I lose my balance and crash through the floor, pain slamming into me, ten times stronger than an avalanche. The world spins, terror clutches at my stomach, and then my knees buckle and everything goes black.

.

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* * *

okay, so this was originally a one-shot, then morphed into a 4000+ word hideousness until I decided to make it a multi-chap. i'm fully aware of how short and artfully crap this chapter is, and i'm sorry about that. hopefully i'll update soon.

so, like it, hate it, concrit it?


	2. holding the hand of a hurricane

an: hello. i suck for it taking me six hundred different kinds of forever to be coerced into updating. so this is for Angela, and everyone else who reviewed. [i'll knit you a sweater?]

disclaimed. ©- Lisi Harrison.

.

* * *

_Dystychiphobia- the fear of accidents._

* * *

"You're so damn lucky." Alicia says, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the railing overlooking the bay.

I shovel another scoop of ice cream into my mouth, managing to cock an eyebrow at the same time.

"Why?"

She snorts. "'Cause you can eat a truckload of shit and not gain a single ounce. Actually," she says, her long finger poking at my ribs, "I think you might actually _lose_ weight by eating."

I shake my head, grinning, then toss my empty cup into the nearest trash can.

"And," She adds, "You don't even dance like a crazy person anymore." She sighs, eyeing me enviously.

"You say that likes it's a good thing." I say.

Leesh immediately looks regretful, and a flurry of apologies shoot through the air, but I'm not listening. I'm thinking back to those four days I spent in hospital, my leg propped up in a cast (broken in two points, they said) and the doctor's hesitant reply when I'd asked if I'd ever be able to dance again.

He probably thought I was going to eat him.

_No ballet for at least eight months._

With the way I looked, abundantly clad in a hospital gown over a pair of ripped jeans and a red sweater my mother had so kindly bothered to bring, skin a shade of white so pale it could've been a painter's dream, cuts and bruises running along my arms and legs, etching patterns from the splinters of wood, and my tangled blonde hair plastered across my face in a Blake Lively-esque manner, I didn't blame him.

My shoulders slump defeatedly and a sigh escapes my lips, just as Alicia's phone beeps, some pop song blaring out the speakers, fracturing the enervated silence. She reaches into her bag to pull out her BlackBerry the action promptly followed by an "Aw, shit." as she slaps the palm of her hand against her forehead, then throws me an rueful look. "I have to go. The Step-Monster's planned some family outing for the weekend." She rolls her eyes and blows me a kiss. "Don't forget to be awesome, okay?"

I smile, turning around and walking away, the wind whipping random strands of hair into my face.

And that's when I see him.

The boy standing on the beach.

Playing soccer.

Just for the record, a sport my mom _despises._

And suddenly I want to go talk to him.

I want to kick the ball and see it crash against the corner of the net.

I want to feel the rush of adrenaline I always got when I danced, or when I achieved something, like an extra spin on my pirouette or a perfect set of sautés.

I want to feel _something._

Without stopping to think how not-me this was, the spontaneous erratic behaviour seeping out of my veinsI kick off my sneakers and make my way towards him, my feet sinking into the golden sand, the soft grains curling underneath my toes.

He looks up and his eyes meet mine. They're a deep brown, the same shade as the Godiva chocolates my mom sometimes bought if she was in a good mood.

He stares at me with those eyes, and suddenly all thoughts of kicking the ball for that rush of empowerment are gone.

"Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia" I blurt out.

Because that's what I do when I'm nervous.

I say whatever's crossing my mind at the time.

And right now it's phobias.

Those four days I spent in hospital, my uncle Mark—who, according to my mother, had always been a little eccentric— unlike everyone else, who gave me disgustingly cheerful get-well-soon cards and flowers and teddy bears, bought me an encyclopedia of fears. I spent two nights reading it, and had memorized almost all of them.

He looks confused. I don't blame him.

"What?"

I look from his perplexed expression to the rippling waves of liquid silver splaying across the golden sand, glistening under the afternoon sun, and back.

"It's the fear of the number 666."

"Oh." He nods, fingering the edge of his black band tee. "That's cool."

I fiddle with the zip on my hoodie.

"Ceraunophobia's the fear of thunder and lightning, athazagoraphobia is the fear of being forgotten, eisoptrophobia is the the fear of seeing oneself in a mirror."

He doesn't say anything, so I continue, "Apeirophobia, fear of infinity, and auroraphobia's the fear of Northern lights."

I stop for a second, bending down and picking up a shell half-buried in the sand, my finger running over the cracks in its pearly white surface. "Want to know my favourite?"

He looks amused. "Okay."

"Arachibutyrophobia." I say. "That's the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth."

The edges of his eyes crinkle as he lets out a low whistle.

"The crack-pots have a name for that?"

I nod, smiling a little at his reaction. When I'd told Alicia that, she'd given me a funny look and asked me if I was off my meds yet.

"And do they have a name for you?"

"Skyler Hamilton-er, Skye." I fumble in my embarrassment, giving him the name I usually introduced myself to teachers, my mom's friends or scouts with, all the while mentally kicking myself for it.

I try not to think about how that last one's probably never going to happen again.

He smiles.

"Nice to meet you, Skye." he says, sliding his hand into mine. The tips of my fingers tingle at the contact. "Derrick Harrington."

* * *

so, i'm sure you've all guessed the pairing by now. i'm slightly surprised at how cheerful/simplistic/ this is coming out. tell me what you think? concrit?

blahh. have a lovely weekend, okay? (:


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